


Gray

by torombolo



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Jeronica, Vughead, why do i always love non canon ships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 11:53:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17724680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torombolo/pseuds/torombolo
Summary: In a town of black and white, they were the gray.  They existed outside the laws of the town’s morality.  They were anomalies, neither good nor bad.





	Gray

How did they get here?  Veronica likes to think it was a combination of her unending supply of liquor mixed with just the right amount of vulnerability.

 

She wondered what Jughead’s shitty excuses were as he was pounding into her from behind.  Was he trying to justify their illicit tryst as he repeatedly shoved his cock into her? Perhaps, but maybe she was just over-analyzing the situation.

 

Sex didn’t have to mean anything, after all.

 

He flipped her over, the wood of the table scraping her back as he hoisted her legs over his shoulders, slipping back into her deeper than before.

 

But  _ this _ sex meant something, didn’t it?  How could it not, when it was such as blatant betrayal of their best friends and lovers?  Though Archie, she supposed, was no longer her lover. And Reggie was nothing more than a hopeless rebound.  What did that make Jughead?

 

“Fuck, please,” she begged as he lifted her ass of the desk, hitting her at a new angle and making her brows knit in concentration.  He answered her in earnest, speeding up his thrusts and grunting.

 

She was unsure what that made Jughead.  But she knew what it made her. A whore.  The proverbial jezebel preying on innocent men to lead them astray.

 

Veronica could feel herself getting closer.  She made a move for her clit, chasing her climax.  Jughead looked down, displeased. He grabbed her wrists and held them above her head, moving his free hand down to the apex of her thighs.  He pressed down roughly, his fingers circling the bundle of nerves driving her closer to the edge.

 

“God, Jughead, please,” she begged.  Funny, she thought. How out of character for her to beg.  This whole thing was out of character, though, so she let the thought roll away like the beads of sweat dripping down her forehead.

 

Jughead sped up his ministrations.  “Jesus Christ, Veronica,” he groaned, the first words to come out of his mouth since he shoved her up against the wall and initiated their current situation.

 

But those words were all she needed.  She tensed her body and tightened her calves around his shoulders before falling limp.  Jughead’s thrusts became erratic as he followed her over the cliff, spilling inside of her before falling atop her on the table.

 

They stayed like that for several minutes, his dick softening inside her, as she waited for the inevitable guilt that followed an orgasm.  But it never came.

 

Her arm started to get numb from his weight, so she gently pushed against him.  He rolled off of her, remaining on the table. She stood up and started to get dressed, shooting him a glance as she searched for her underwear.

 

She looked for signs of guilt or panic but only saw post-coital satisfaction and a blank stare.  Rolling her eyes, she went back to hunt for her La Perlas.

 

Jughead sat up, watching Veronica slip her bra back on.  He had expected to feel shame after coming down from the high of completion, but was only met with excitement and anticipation.

 

His first thought was not about Betty or Archie or anyone else in this god forsaken town.  Instead he was wondering when they would do this again. He scoffed at himself. As if this would be a regular occurance, he thought sardonically.

 

Why did he do it?  Why did he push Veronica against the wall of her speakeasy?  Why had he pressed his lips against hers? Why had he asked her if he could fuck her?

 

He would like to blame the alcohol, but that was too easy.  If he knew anything, it was that great mysteries were never easy.

 

Jughead’s life had been a continuous downward spiral, one in which he felt he had no control.  Maybe this was his attempt to have some agency over his own life, his own choices.

 

Or maybe he was giving himself too much credit, assigning too great of a philosophical reasoning behind his actions when in reality he just wanted to fuck her to see if he  _ could _ .

 

Maybe he was the piece-of-shit trailer trash he always thought he was.  And maybe she was the overindulged cruel whore she said she left behind in New York.

 

But maybe that was him not giving them enough credit.

 

Maybe the truth was somewhere in the middle.  

 

He had, after all, felt like he had no control in his life.  He felt pigeon-holed into a relationship with Betty. When they started dating, he felt so bad about himself, and she made him feel good.  She  _ believed _ in him.  

 

But tonight, as he was drinking with Veronica, talking about how shitty their lives had turned out, how everything seemed to be falling apart around them, Jughead had an epiphany.  

 

His relationship with Betty was built on ego.  His ego. Or rather, his need for someone,  _ anyone _ , to give a shit about him.  And Betty became that person and he loved her for it.  But he didn’t actually love  _ her _ , did he?  He just loved being in love.  He was addicted to the feeling of acknowledgement.  He  _ used _ her, took her affection and shot it up like heroin, taking and taking and taking like an unhinged junkie.

 

He had been fooling himself, thinking that they would ever last, that anything meaningful could come from their relationship.  After all, an alcoholic can’t go from being entirely dependent on the substance to drinking it casually. 

 

No, the only way to combat addiction was to cut it out of your life.  

 

He intended to break things off with her soon.  It would be difficult, because she thought she loved him, too.  But she was as addicted as he was. Not to love; no, she had love surrounding her from every direction.  She was addicted to feeling like she was anything more than the quintessential girl-next-door. Jughead was her out from suburban domesticity, the dark to balance out her unwavering light.

 

Yes, Jughead had made the decision to break things off with Betty Cooper.  He just hadn’t expected to sleep with Veronica Lodge before hand.

 

Veronica Lodge.  He looked back over at her.  She was standing there in her underwear, no doubt more expensive than his entire outfit.  He understood her surface appeal, always had. She was gorgeous, dark eyes and dark hair creating the most alluring mystery.

 

It wasn’t her looks, though.  He didn’t lust after her like half the male population of Riverdale, acting like dogs in heat.  No, there was more to Veronica than what was on the outside.

 

The more he was around her, the more he realized they were two sides of the same coin.  Both living with parents more concerned about their criminal endeavors than their kids, both trying in all their desperate glory to be seen as more than the child of a thug, both fiercely fighting to deny their legacy, both screaming “Look at me! I can be a good person!” when they both knew it was hollow lies.

 

But that was part of the problem with Riverdale.  For so long, its residents had only seen in black and white.  Even his own girlfriend believed that she was either good or bad, the blonde-haired girl-next-door or the dark haired dominatrix.  And Archie, his best friend, was either the golden child or a reckless vigilante.

 

It was either black or white, yin or yang.

 

But not with Veronica.  In a town of black and white, they were the gray.  They existed outside the laws of the town’s morality.  They were anomalies, neither good nor bad.

 

And once Jughead had realized that, he was drawn to her like a moth to a flame.  He stared at her like he was looking at his reflection in a dirty mirror.

 

“You broke my zipper.” 

 

Jughead looked up, smirking.  Veronica rolled her eyes, tossing it at him.

 

He fiddled with it.  “Not broken; just jammed.”  With some effort, he finally pulled the zipper back up, throwing the dress back at her.

 

“What are you going to tell Betty?” she asked, not bothering to beat around the bush.

 

“I’m not.  I’m breaking up with her,” he responded.

 

“Excuse me?” she asked, suddenly hyper-aware of the ramifications of their actions.

 

“Not- not because of this.  I was already planning on it.”

 

She nodded, slipping her dress over her head and walking over to him.

 

“Zip me back up.”  

 

He complied.  As the zipper reached the top, his hands lingered, slipping around her shoulders.  She leaned back into him.

 

“I see you, Veronica,” he murmured into her neck.  “I see you and I think you’re the only person in this goddamn town that sees me.”

 

She nodded, tipping her head to the side to allow him more access.

 

She didn’t know at what point she started to realize everything that was Jughead Jones the Third, but one day, it all clicked.  She understood him, knew exactly what he was saying.

 

She spun around.  “I see you,” she whispered in response.  His lips met hers again. This kiss was softer than before, less urgent, less clawing, less desperate.  It was still just as intense, just as raw, just as vulnerable.

 

She felt like reality, a cold bucket of water splashing over him and grounding him.  She was his tether to truth in this town that felt so surreal, so absurd. He pulled away from her.

 

“I don’t know what we’re going to do,” he finally said.  She nodded. What could they do? It wasn’t as if Betty and Archie would throw them a party.

 

“But this can’t be over, please.”  Desperation started to creep into his tone, and Veronica put a hand up to his cheek reassuringly. 

 

“It isn’t,” was all she said.

 

Jughead felt as if he had been lost in the desert for so long he forgot what life was like out of it.  And Veronica was an oasis. They wouldn’t understand, their friends, but he couldn’t drop this, couldn’t drop her.

 

Veronica stepped back, smoothing down the front of her dress and offering him his clothes.  He slipped them on.

 

“Don’t tell them, not yet.  They aren’t ready, and they won’t be ready for a long time,” she implored.

 

He nodded, pulling his jeans up and buttoning them.  After getting fully dressed, he walked over to her and pulled her in for one last kiss.  They detached reluctantly, like magnets being forced apart. He turned to leave, at first thinking his life had turned upside down, but now believing it had been turned rightside up.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

_ “I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz, _

_ or the arrow of carnations that propagate fire: _

_ I love you as one loves certain obscure, dark things, _

_ secretly, between the shadow and the soul. _

 

_ I love you as the plant that never blooms _

_ but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers; _

_ thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, _

_ risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body. _

 

_ I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. _

_ I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; _

_ I love you because I know no other way _

 

_ than this: where I does not exist, nor you, _

_ so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, _

_ so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.” _

 

_ -Pablo Neruda _

  
  
  
  
  
  



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